Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
One moment of silence.
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
Use lipstick
to make people like you
Sipping
swallowing
licking
cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.
[it’s real when they say it]
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
Sipping
swallowing
licking
cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.
One moment of silence.
Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:
[it’s real when they say it]
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
Use lipstick
to make people like you
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord
who has taken away
the lord has taken away
Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.
Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?
everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
Sipping
swallowing
licking
cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.
[it’s real when they say it]
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord
who has taken away
the lord has taken away
Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.
Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.
One moment of silence.
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.
everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.
Use lipstick
to make people like you
The show begins. It’s ready. You sit to watch the audience. Now you can clap.
Nothing is enough for the royalty of a ghost.
but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
Sipping
swallowing
licking
cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
[it’s real when they say it]
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
One moment of silence.
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
Sipping
swallowing
licking
cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.
[it’s real when they say it]
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
One moment of silence.
I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord
who has taken away
the lord has taken away
Use lipstick
to make people like you
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.
“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”
Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.
One moment of silence.
Sipping
swallowing
licking
cup-fraction
where her lips
could
have left behind
a drop.
From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!
A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.
Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:
[it’s real when they say it]
CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,
in the preterite
OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.
with golden threads
death
doesn’t sprawl out on the couch
I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord
who has taken away
the lord has taken away
Here when? Between walls of sound. Who now? Not wondering. That, there. Soon. You're not.
You were Styrofoam cups bound together with reed string, the bicycled inclines and scraped forehead.
visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.
—